"Mortality's last exercise and proof
Is undergone; the transit made that shows
The very soul, revealed as it departs."

Henry Clairville lay in the ancient and tattered bed which not even the activities of Mme. Poussette could render more than moderately decent. The sands of life were running out indeed; a great change was apparent in his pinched and freckled features, and his small colourless eyes had sunk entirely back into his head. Two large cats slept at his feet and three more lay under the bed; despite all madame could do to remove them, these five out of the fourteen persisted in returning again and again to the familiar habitat which custom or attachment had made necessary. Their brown tigery sides rose and fell peacefully in the sound slumber induced by the plentiful fare of Clairville, but no sleep came to their master. Occasionally he would stretch forth a withered hand to try and stroke one or other of his pets, but they had gradually slipped to the foot of the bed, their weight, which was considerable, having formed a deep pit in the lumpy feather mattress. Mme. Poussette sat in the room, Dr. Renaud across the hall in the faded salon, while the priest arranged the holy office of the Blessed Sacrament in a corner with his back turned, occasionally repeating aves and prayers under his breath.

Pauline's entrance, subdued from her native impetuosity to something chastened and severe, was still out of harmony with the shabby carpet, the patched counterpane, and the meagre daylight; she brought into the room an extraordinary sense of brightness, and yet she had taken some trouble to amend her costume and bring it within the range of things sorrowful and sober. Her side face, in particular, nothing could tame; the exquisite ear, defined by a diamond, showed youthfully against the dark hair looped thickly just behind it, the full chin and curved lips were always on the point, seemingly, of breaking into a smile, whereas the front face betrayed both age and agitation by the vertical lines of the forehead and by the strained expression of the eyes, oftener fiery and worried than calm and pleasing.

Mme. Poussette left her chair and approached the lady of the Manor, but nothing more than a fleeting contemptuous glance did the latter bestow. At the sight of Henry and the cats all her courage returned and a measure of her temper.

"I was sent for and I am here," she said, advancing to the middle of the room with not a shred of kindness in her manner. Was it not as it had always been—hateful, uncongenial, difficult? Why must she feign hypocritical interest and sympathy? "And I know why you sent for me, but I tell you, Henry, it is of no use. I will promise nothing."

The seigneur moved heavily from his side to his back and weakly opened his small eyes upon her. It was evident that he was clear in his mind.

"You were sent for and you are here," he repeated, "but you did not wish to come. Did not Nature work within you, bidding you come? Did not sisterly love, sweet kinship, weigh with you at all?"

"Not in the least," replied Miss Clairville coldly. She continued to stand, although the other woman proffered a chair, nor did she unfasten her fur coat or draw off her gloves. Her brother took note of this.

"You had better sit," he murmured.

"I will not! In this room—you know I have never sat here since——
You know the vow I made. And why."

"I know, my sister, I know. Nevertheless, sit now."

Father Rielle turned half round. "Sit, my daughter. It will not be for long."

And from Dr. Renaud came the sharp order: "Sit—at once."

Overruled, but with annoyance and aversion in every movement, Pauline took madame's chair.

"I cannot stay—I mean—I cannot stay long. Oh—Henry, why have you brought me here? I can do you no good, and the sight of you will do me harm, it always does!"

This outburst was more natural to her stormy temperament than her previous rigidity; her hands clasped and unclasped, while the frown between her eyes, almost the shape of a barred gate, broke up as a few wild tears fell upon her lap. Clairville, for his part, though a dying man, showed resolution and calm obstinacy.

"You ask that question—and yet you profess to know why I sent for you? If you do not come to me of your goodwill, I must send for you, that is clear. You are hearing nothing of me, for I have been too long a dead man to the world, but I continue to hear much of you. This marriage—is it true?"

"I was coming to you," she said hastily, and with evasion; "I had made arrangements so that when I leave Canada for good I shall have nothing to reproach myself for."

"I ask—and see that you answer—you are going to be married?"

With an uneasy glance at the priest, Miss Clairville murmured: "Yes". Then louder, as if in an effort to assert herself: "It is to Mr. Hawtree, an old friend, your friend. There is nothing new or surprising, nothing peculiar in that. Only what is new is this—that he will not have to work, that he has come into some money, that we can go away and live in other places; live indeed how or where we like. Henry—think what that will do for me! Think how it will change all my life and how at last I shall realize my dreams, if not fulfil my ambitions! And then I may be able to help you too, perhaps—and—and Angeel. That is—I am not sure of this, but I shall try and do so."

Clairville seemed to be endeavouring to look at his sister more closely.

"I cannot hear you very well. Will you approach the bed, Pauline? I am feeble, you see—I am——" Terrible coughing now interrupted him, and he called upon the doctor.

"Renaud!" he gasped. "Where is Renaud?"

"Not far off," replied the medical man, sauntering easily to the bedside. "Come then, Mlle. Pauline, do your best for your brother. Take his hand. Bend your face—so. Lower, if you please! Madame will go to the other side,—a good woman, mademoiselle, a good kind woman!"

"Have I said she was anything else?" returned Pauline, stiffly obeying the doctor's instructions, but with obvious dislike in every movement. She took the seigneur's hand, she forced herself to place her head almost upon his pillow.

"You are uncomfortable, my poor Pauline! You shrink from me, you would avoid this meeting, this last scene on earth, but remember, this hour, this scene comes to all, will come, must come to you. If you marry, if you have good loving children, when this hour comes, you shall not pray in vain nor weep, for they will surround you, but I, Pauline, I have only you, you and one other."

"But that other! You have not sent for her? She is not here."

"No, not yet. I spare you that, Pauline; she will arrive later, after—I am gone. Father Rielle knows at last; he never suspected. Renaud knows; speak to her, Renaud, tell her."

Another fit of coughing shook him, and the cats, disturbed in their sleep, stood up, arching their brown backs and yawning.

"Take them off, take them away!" moaned Pauline, her eyes closed, but the seigneur shook a menacing finger.

"They do no harm," said the doctor tersely. "Keep his feet warm, I daresay."

"Not even that, Renaud, not even that. But leave them—good cats, good friends."

The cats curled up again in conscious attitudes, while from under the vast and ancient bed came a loud and insistent purring, rising and falling with triumphant, happy cadences—the song of the mother-cat, impervious to all save her immediate surroundings.

"If they were dogs," cried Miss Clairville, in fretful fear and mortification, "they would not sleep like that! They would know you were ill, dying, and they would keep watch and show affection. I always hated cats, and now I shall hate them more than ever."

"What are cats?" said the doctor with a yawn, which vanished as he glanced down at his patient. "Come, you are here to arrange a few details with monsieur your brother—make haste then. Madame, some water and a little brandy in it! So. Now, Mademoiselle, attend."

"There is not so much for me to say," said the sick man, pressing Pauline's hand with wistful entreaty, "as there is from me to hear from you yourself. I have confessed my fault, my sin, and yet, not my sin, Pauline. Angele is my child, by ArtÉmise Archambault, as you have always known, but she is more, she is my daughter, legitimately begotten, in proper wedlock. This you did not know, my poor Pauline. She is a true Clairville, my sister, a De Clairville, I should say."

Pauline was now entirely overcome with a new emotion, that of intense surprise and consternation; instantly the consequences of legitimizing "Angeel" rushed at her. Instead of a low liaison there was marriage; the child and she were heirs alike; they were relations and should be friends, and what she had feared to hear timidly broached—some plan to keep the child near her—would now be insisted upon.

"Oh!" she cried, drawing away, "this is worse than anything I came prepared to hear! This is the worst, cruellest of all. Far better had she been nameless, far, far better. Perhaps—ah! yes—now I understand; he is ill, he wanders, he does not know what he is saying."

"Tell her, Renaud."

"It is all true, mademoiselle. Believe what he says, for he was never clearer in the head, not often so clear in life and health as now."

At this she broke down completely, sobbing aloud. The priest gently intervened.

"I cannot allow this, my daughter. You must respect the hour, the condition of monsieur, the place, the death-bed of a Christian, mademoiselle!"

Pauline's sudden sharp sobs were all that could be heard. She had never wept like this in her life before.

"What is it you want me to do? Not take her with me, not have her to live with me? I could not, Henry, I could not. Even if I could overcome my horror of her—poor innocent child, for it is not her fault she is as she is—I have no right to visit her on Edmund when we are married. Yes, yes—you must see that we shall be separated. Angele and her mother—oh! it is not possible—yet I must call her so since you say it, your wife, Henry, the Archambault girl, will live here. They will be comfortable, and if we do well where we are going, if Edmund comes into his money——"

Clairville interrupted her.

"It is of him, too, Hawtree, that I would speak. I fear, I fear—he is not what he should be, to be your husband, my poor Pauline. His talk—he has told me much of his past, of women, other women. Pauline—he has loved in many places."

"Yes, but I was the last—and best!" broke from Miss Clairville in a burst of self-pity. Her eager accents lent pathos to the triumphant declaration and she fancied the priest laughing in his corner! the doctor gave a snort of ridicule and even the lips of the impassive nurse seemed to contract with a contemptuous smile.

"He tells you so, he tells you so. Well, may it be so then, and Heaven bless you, Pauline. If I—if I——" his lean hand moved jerkily; it wandered in search of her head, but instead of those dark locks of hair it fell on the back of a cat. Pauline was swayed by extraordinary and clashing emotions. He—her hated and despised brother—was trying to bless her, to lay unsanctified and sinful yet yearning hands upon her, and it was a blow to her pride to learn forbearance in such a school and from such a teacher. But he had spoken almost his last words. He collapsed, groaning, and the doctor and Mme. Poussette each passed an arm under him. Father Rielle appeared at the bedside with the sacrament.

"Not for a minute or two," said Dr. Renaud. "He is still worried in his mind. It is you, mademoiselle, always you. He is uneasy about the child. I know what he wishes; that you will be friendly with her, treat her as your own blood, stay here with her, it may be, for a season. Promise, mademoiselle, and quickly."

"I cannot! I cannot!"

"Nonsense! Promise—and at once."

Father Rielle whispered in her ear: "Promise, my daughter."

"It will be useless. I should not keep such a promise."

"What does that matter? Promise—to soothe his dying moments, even if you break it afterwards. The Church thus orders, and the Church will make good, will console."

Thus hemmed in, Pauline bent and gave her promise; much shaken and still violently sobbing, she then left the room and Renaud accompanied her. The act was significant, the leech of the body withdrawing to make room for the leech of the soul. The door was softly drawn to by Mme. Poussette; the low sound of Father Rielle's voice was heard at intervals, then there was a silence. Ten minutes later the priest and nurse came out, throwing wide the door on the remains of Henry Clairville, just passed from this world to the next. At the same instant, a strange incongruous sound came from the room, and Pauline, wide-eyed and panting, stopped sobbing, and stood up with her hands pressed over her heart. It was the penetrating chant of three lusty kittens, new-born, blind and helpless, yet quick to scent their mother and grope towards her furry bosom.

Madame hastily re-entered, driving all the cats before her, including the outraged mother, who took this summary eviction with hoarse and angry cries, and the kittens, gathered roughly into madame's apron, continued to emit shrill, smothered squeals all the way to the kitchen. Dr. Renaud passed in to verify the death, and the incident of the cats was not lost upon him; indeed, it appealed to his professional instinct.

"In the midst of Death we are in Life," he remarked jocularly, stepping back into the hall to get ready for the drive homeward.

Miss Clairville glanced at these preparations, and speedily made up her mind. She had grown quiet and was already relieved at the prospect of leaving Clairville immediately.

"It cannot matter now whether I go or stay, surely! Dr. Renaud, I go with you, is it not so?"

"Faith—it doesn't matter any longer now, as you say. Quick with you then, for I have much in the village to arrange; a Clairville does not die every day. Madame has the young Antoine with her, she will not be afraid. I can send somebody out to sit with her, and you will be best at Poussette's."

The day was cold but bright and intensely sunny, and Pauline's relief and gratitude to the doctor brought back her colour; she sat up, casting her care behind her, and let him talk.

"Well, there was not much to be done with him; the 'pic' had weakened the system, and after so many years of incarceration in a sleeping-room the chest and lungs were delicate; hence the congestion and cause of death. Well, well—let me see—I remember your brother twenty-three years ago when I first came to St. Ignace. A strange, bookish, freakish character, but a gentleman, that goes without saying, Ma'amselle Pauline. And you, just a little black-haired girl, reciting French tragedy in the untidy garden! Ah—ah! I see it clearly—no father, no mother, save old Victoria Archambault, and yet you grew up a handsome young lady, always thinking of making your fortune, eh? And you cannot have made it yet or you would not be contemplating marriage with our friend the Englishman."

Pauline's face changed at this; the barred gate stood out over her eyes, and with ease and happiness fading from her mouth and expression she turned on Renaud.

"Who was there to help me make it or to care if I made it at all? Now that you know the truth and see what Henry is and was, how could I be anything or do anything in such a milieu! You taunt me, you—who profess to have known nothing of the Archambault affair all these years!"

"I give you the word of honour, mademoiselle, I swear it to you—I knew nothing! Recollect—your brother never would admit a doctor, you were strong and healthy and much away from Clairville; of the child I only heard from those at Hawthorne and I did not connect what I did hear with either you or the seigneur, as he liked to call himself. These afflicted ones, these peculiar ones—Mme. Poussette kept the secret well. But two days ago he sent for me and told me everything; how he was properly married in the parish of Sault au Recollet to ArtÉmise Archambault, she, the half-witted, the empty-headed—God knows whether that was the charm or what—and of the birth of the child, he told me. What could you expect from the union of two such natures? If you marry, mademoiselle, mate neither with a bad temper nor an unbridled thirst."

"Ah, be quiet, Dr. Renaud! You are the blunt well-wisher, I suppose, a type I detest! How can I help myself! I have chosen, and you know the Clairville character."

"Yes, I know, but count before you jump—'tis safer. Jesting aside, ma'amselle, and although I come from a death-bed I jest with a light heart as one who sees on the whole enough of life and never too much of death—you are still too young and too brilliant a woman to marry anything but well. But I have said, I have finished."

"And not too soon"—was Miss Clairville's inward thought, as with new fears pricking at her heart she kept silence, so unusual a thing with her that the garrulous Renaud observed it and endeavoured to correct his pessimism.

"Enough of Life and not too much of Death," he repeated, gaily flourishing his whip. "It has a queer sound, that, eh? But it is like this, ma'amselle; when I bring to life, when I usher into this world, I see the solemnity and the importance of life in front of me and I am sad; it makes me afraid. When I assist at the grave I am calm and happy, light-hearted even, because there our responsibility for one another ceases, so long as we keep the Masses going."

"The Masses! For their souls you mean, for his soul? How then—do you believe that, Dr. Renaud?"

"Eh? Believe—mademoiselle? Come, you take me at a disadvantage. Am I not a good Catholic then? Pardon me, but I never discuss these questions. Without the Church we should be much worse than we are, and faith—some of us are about as bad as we can be already."

Pauline, tired out, said no more, but leaning back fell into dreaming of her marriage and of the life before her. Her brother was gone, peacefully and honourably on the whole; of Angeel it was not necessary to think, and if ArtÉmise were to remain at Clairville as its mistress, a very good way might be opened toward conciliating the neighbourhood and of managing the child for the future. The Archambaults would most likely all return, evict Mme. Natalie Poussette, who would return to her husband, and Clairville Manor again assume the lively air of a former period, with French retainers young and old overrunning the house and grounds.

Once more in thought Miss Clairville saw the culmination of her hopes all revolving around the interesting Hawtree, and once more she began in fancy to add to, sort over, and finally pack away the airy trousseau which must now be enriched by at least one sober black suit, hat and mourning veil.